


Know Thine Enemy

by mooguriklaine



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, F/M, Gen, Mind Games, Mind Palace, Possession, takeover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooguriklaine/pseuds/mooguriklaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Artemis got rid of the Atlantis Complex, he got worse.<br/>Events of this fic take place between <i>The Atlantis Complex</i> and <i>The Last Guardian</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is A Takeover

**Author's Note:**

> Been annoyed at how Colfer handwaved Artemis recovering from Atlantis Complex at the start of The Last Guardian. So indulge me, dear reader. 
> 
> This fic's been sitting on my hard drive for quite a while now - dusted it off and decided to publish, so I can get myself to write again.
> 
> Un-beta'ed, un-screened. All-organic, all-natural. Enjoy!

“We can share.” 

The words were simple. Yet it was the delivery that caught Artemis unawares – succinct and to the point. There was also no mistaking the edge in Orion’s otherwise placid and dreamy voice.

Artemis even grudgingly admitted it sounded like him. And it unnerved him to find what little control he had in the situation, and inside his own head at that.

From his initial sessions, Artemis knew earlier on what to do with his condition, being the genius that he was. To recover from the complex, he had to acknowledge and reconcile his doubts, issues, and inhibitions that created the alternate personality in the first place. 

Catharsis.

Easier said than done. Now, face to face with his alter-ego in their shared mind-space, Artemis realized all too quickly how difficult this so-called catharsis can be achieved when Orion had a different plan in mind, in a manner of speaking.

“Don’t presume that I don’t know what you know, Artemis. _Know thine enemy._ ” Even his personal motto was being used against him. Artemis’s gaze faltered ever so slightly, but Orion took notice, and seized it as a small victory for himself. “You would, in time, assimilate my qualities, there is no doubting your capability.

“Which only begs the question, what’s stopping me from learning you? I can. In fact, _I am._ ” Artemis saw Orion smile, vampire-like, curled in a way that resembled his. It held only for a moment, before Orion frowned. “I may have to continue working on that, I’m afraid. What do you reckon?”

Artemis had seen enough. He turned his back away from his mind-twin, and bolted for the door, feeling uncharacteristically sick. He found himself running down the length of the hallway that the mind-space had built to mimic the one in the Spiro Needle, no doubt Orion’s attempt at annoying him. But as he ran, he saw he was getting nowhere – the corridor had stretched on and on. Orion’s push in this realm was already starting to become stronger than his. 

Artemis held out his left hand and closed his fist, feeling the air and space bend around him. He visualized the exit door Dr. Argon had helped him create in their sessions – the door that would bring him back.

“I won’t stay here for long, Artemis.” Orion’s voice drifted to him, clear and close as ever.

Artemis opened his eyes. His meditative pose hadn’t shifted from the time he began, but he found himself covered by a thin sheen of sweat. He made a cursory glance at the black obsidian mirror in front of him. Its polished surface reflected him, breathing with difficulty.

Forget sharing, he thought to himself. Orion never wanted to compromise. He wanted something else.

Complete and utter takeover.

Artemis smiled, in spite of himself. 

Finally, an enemy worthy of a challenge.


	2. The Dark Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairy approach to therapy is discussed in detail here, and comes with a magical artifact, to boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to keep my writing wits above me, combined with the need never to let this fandom die! 
> 
> Un-beta'ed, un-screened. All-organic, all-natural. Enjoy!

Fairy psychology is not an exact science; nor is it purely hokey-pokey. More of a multi-level discipline, Artemis had observed. 

Technology, as expected, would significantly eclipse human standards. Argon’s clinic was equipped with tools that did more than just record sessions. For instance, sensors that can read brainwaves, parallel cranial processes, and translate it into raw data instantly. Patterns can be discerned in real time. Argon could easily pinpoint which areas need targeting. Despite his worsening condition, Artemis was fascinated with its other diagnostic uses, but the good doctor wouldn’t show him any.

“You are the patient, and it wouldn’t help if you’re self-diagnosing,” Argon said, looking from his tablet that transmitted the information wirelessly from the module attached to Artemis’ temples. Artemis would have to hack into the network after the session then.

Fairy approach to therapy was all the more fascinating. The People acknowledge the brain’s incredible potential (“Mud Men know it of course, but they haven’t the foggiest how to do it,” scoffed Dr. Argon), and therefore, harness its nigh-infinite space. Their methods centered in navigating the mind-space. For that, one needed to be in a complete state of focus.

And so, before the therapy started, Artemis had been instructed to study meditation practices of the People. Artemis recalled how Opal Koboi plotted her way out of incarceration by her self-induced coma from Gola Schweem. The classes were conducted by the guru himself: a dazed, bemused-looking gnome who looked as though he spent more than half of his life unconscious.

The most interesting classes would come later, and it surprised Artemis how simple and commonplace it was: dreaming. And with augmented fairy tech, dream sessions become more than just seismic readings and scribbly text: dreams can be recorded, visualized, revisited. “And in full HD, too,” gushed Argon. “I’ve written a good deal of research on the correlation of increased dream recording and the decline of the movie industry. I mean, dreams are much better, yes?”

After the crash course, Artemis moved into the more integral part of his therapy. “Schweem’s is meant to teach you focus,” said Argon. “This time, we channel that concentration into a focal point: your subconscious.”

Given the nature of his complex developing a split personality, Artemis had rather inadvertently, been able to gain access to his subconscious through multi-level dreaming. And there was no mistaking that Artemis had the knack for it: Argon grudgingly admitted the teen was a natural, after seeing his design of the Dublin Opera House in the mind-space.

The hokey-pokey part was not magic, in a sense that it’s not waving wands and seeing sparks. Magic is energy, inherent in all things – Artemis had concluded that in the time tunnel in Hybras.

“Shock therapy, and you Mud Men think it’s all breakthrough and cutting edge,” Argon guffawed. Artemis was about to point out how the therapy in question was: a.) now deemed obsolete, if inhumane, practice even by modern psych standards; and b.) actually necessary to force the personality switch, and thus prove its utility; but Argon had already ambled forward to a curious new addition to his office.

It was rectangular in shape; a tall, imposing structure covered by a thick red velvet drape. It towered the elf considerably, and with the blood red covers, looked rather foreboding. Reaching with a gnarly hand, Argon pulled it apart with a flourish. “Behold – the pièce de résistance!”

Artemis found himself looking at an inky black surface. It looked as though someone carved a void in the middle of the space and left a gaping maw in its wake. He took a tentative step, and saw the surface rippled, like water on a starless night. Another step, and now the monolith stood solid, smooth, unmoving. He felt a tug, an inexplicable pull towards it. Artemis moved closer.

Now, standing merely inches away from it, that was when Artemis realized he was staring at his reflection. 

“Black obsidian,” came the doctor’s helpful commentary. “A really rare mineral, and not even of this Earth [1]. Forged from fallen meteorites, and those are really hard to come by and collect aboveground. Famed for its pure black color and chemical purity. ‘The Dark Star,’ it’s called.”

Artemis had heard of this rare and unique artifact, of course. Considered to be one of the People’s Seven Great Treasures; at one point in his life, he even wanted to covet it for himself. That was a different life then, and he was a different person now. And this was the last thing he expected to find, especially for his therapy.

“Special permission from the Council, of course. Likewise, you are a special case; we don’t get Mud Men suffering from Atlantis everyday. Black obsidian is a mental conduit, if an unusual one. What it can do is something you will experience for yourself.”

Sensing the boy’s quiet awe, Argon continued his narration in hushed tones. “They say looking at it can drove many a feeble mind to insanity. However, I assure you this will help. There is a --”

Artemis had tuned out Argon’s sermon and shifted his focus on the mirror.

The People’s lore told of a story about twin princes that fought each other for the throne of their father’s kingdom. They were equally matched in strength; thus, the war stood at a tense stalemate. Everything changed when a maiden from another land came to appeal to their better judgment, to end the fighting once and for all.

Her plea was granted; the brothers dropped their arms and abandoned their battlements, only to fight for her affections. Accounts varied on how the princes tried to woo the maiden; however, they all ended the same way.

One prince – either by cunning, treachery, or both – tricked his brother, and trapped him inside the black mirror. Believing he had finally bested his twin, the prince sought the maiden for her hand. However, she knew of the man’s betrayal to his own blood and cursed him no peace and release until his twin breaks free.

It is said, on nights where there is no moon nor star in the sky, one can see a glimpse of the trapped prince inside the mirror, biding his time, waiting for the moment to exact his revenge.

And for a moment, Artemis swore he saw his reflection _wink_ at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Ehem. Did a creative license for this particular mineraloid. Obsidian is actually as earthbound as it gets: it is formed from cooled lava from volcanoes. 
> 
> Thoughts, feelings, questions, kudos - you know where to find me ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. In Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look inside Artemis' mind space. Orion Fowls not welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear by the old gods and the new, I will write, write, write and finish this.
> 
> Thanks for waiting <3

Chapter 3: In Control

Inside Artemis’ mind, Bach’s Cello Suite was playing.

He smiled, feeling every note as it flowed in the room, which he altered to look like his study back at home. The fire in the hearth crackled merrily, bathing him with warmth. 

Argon suggested he create something familiar first, an anchor in the construct. Artemis’ hand ran through the polished oak finish of his father’s desk, satisfied with how he recreated the wood grain, down to the small nicks on the drawers’ keyholes. When he was much younger, Artemis tried to pick the locks, exhilarated at the thought of secrets and treasures within. Sadly, the drawers only yielded legal facsimiles.

Artemis missed his book collection back at the manor; he had fun recreating those. His mind seemed to have made up some details on its own, though; he spotted some odd books here and there, no doubt his mind’s way of filling in details. 

“Ah, I thought I might find you here.” A voice interrupted.

Standing by the doorway was Orion Fowl. 

There was something strange being face to face with one’s alter-ego: like someone surreptitiously took a photo of him and decided to surprise him with a copy. Artemis knew the reflection he’d seen at the obsidian mirror was this stranger. 

Not surprisingly, Orion looked every bit the same as Artemis, even down to his tailored Armani suit. 

Orion let out an easy smile, which looked foreign on his face. “So nice to finally meet you in the, er, flesh.” He held out his hand.

The two selves pitted their gazes against each other: Artemis and his cold steely looks and Orion’s jovial, sickeningly sweet smile. A terse silence followed.

“Enough,” Artemis said finally. “I know I’m following an idiotic line of inquiry here, but I’ll ask anyway. What are you doing here?”

“I would have to throw that question back at you, I’m afraid,” replied Orion. He motioned to the room, “This realm is my home. If anything, you are the intruder to my domicile.” His words sounded slow, relished.

“This is how you talk?” Artemis groaned. Foaly wasn’t exaggerating when he told him of Orion’s purple prose.

“This mind space bows to my very will.” Orion’s voice rang clear in the room. Artemis noticed his background music was gone. 

Suddenly, Artemis felt energy being sucked out of him, an invisible weight forcing him down on his knees. Around him, parts of his elaborately created study cracked like broken pixels, like a computer graphic glitching. 

He watched as books shifted around and changed positions. “Hmmm, your book choices have always been so dispassionate, so devoid of feeling.” A book flew to Orion’s hand; he skimmed through the pages. “Violet Tsirblou could learn a thing or two from me. Oh, the odes I could write for our elfin princess.” A slim volume appeared on his hand. “Care to take a look?”

‘That’s it.’ Artemis gritted his teeth as he stood up. Orion took a step back, which he took as a good sign. ‘I’m in control.’ He stretched his hand, and willed the door to his room to open with a resounding boom.

Orion turned to the door. “Oh. Are we expecting company?”

Artemis smiled. “No. I want you out.” And with a flick of his hand, Orion shot like a rag doll past the door and further out to his subconscious. 

“I don’t care who you are, but no one - NO ONE - touches my books.”

He snapped his fingers and Bach’s Cello Suite resumed play.


End file.
